Drabbles and flashes
by TGBMcCray
Summary: Bits of flashfic, drabbles, quick inspiration, submitted around the fandom or at writing sites online. Characters and stories depend on the prompt for which I was writing.
1. TLS FF Week of feb 7

Since my six-week checkup, he's been sniffing around like a dog looking for a place to bury his bone. I'd as soon play dead.

Oh, they are a joy, to be sure, and work, these whelping babes, wriggling and screaming for dinner among the mounds of swollen flesh I once shared only with him. We live days of adoration and nights of blinding exhaustion.

I am stripping wet sheets, and he is home early. I am mad when I see him in his work shirt and shaven jaw. He's got those hopeful eyes. I just want a fucking nap.

He's crushing me to his chest. "I missed you." His lips are against my neck and that heavy scent of musk and salt water; it works over the Dreft and sourness, pulling me in. He's needy and I don't want to fill anyone else, but his lips are trailing where his hands pet. I am worn and warming.

My head turns and he licks my lips. "I need you."

I say it. "I'm so tired, so...ugly."

His hand stills on his belt. "No..." He follows the curve of my ass and squeezes, walking his hands up my ribcage, skirting the edges of my breasts. "You made my babies, darlin'."

My mouth is working like a fish, because, oh! One long finger is inside me, and then two, and he is grunting and rutting, dropping his jeans. "My love, my love..."

He grabs my shoulder and turns me. I bend at the waist and when he's slipped inside, we both shiver deep. His hands cover mine as he pushes. I stick out my ample ass to meet him and we are not mom and dad anymore.

We are Adam and Eve in the garden of this holy space.


	2. TLS FF Week of feb 19

Hopelessness and lust are kissing cousins. I feel it as he tastes me, pulling ribbons of wetness across the warmth of my thighs and stomach. I feel it in the grip of his strong hands around my ankles as he holds me down. I cannot escape it or him. I'm hopeless. We are lost and luxuriating in the madness of sweating skin and touch and smell and taste –always taste.

In the back of my mind, beneath the whispers of his hands, there's still her. Her phantom writhes between us. The words he calls her lash my consciousness and bind me to reality. Bitch. Money-hungry. Conniving. Shrew.

Wife.

That one stings most of all.

"Wait." He's ready, wound up and weeping, charged to push us both past the brink of glory and grief. "Describe me in one word."

His hand reaches for my heart and flattens against the crashing beats within my chest. "Mine," he says. "Always mine."

I arch to meet him, lost, rising up to hold his neck with fingers that curl into claws. We devour and possess because in the end, only that final word matters.


	3. Flash Fic, week 4, on Madi Merek's blog

At work they call her "Miss Prissy," the prissiest, prettiest typist this side of the Mississippi Delta.

"Loosen up, baby." His fingers curl at her throat as he pushes his hardness against her skirt. "You're wound tighter than a two dollar watch."

His mouth licks a line behind his roving fingers as he pulls at that damned skirt. "Baby," he says, "Come on, baby."

She shudders and he bumps her again, right there where she's so warm and he's weeping in his jeans. Every time his lips touch her, she melts a little into his arms, like a hothouse flower unfolding in the summer sun.

"Oh." Her mouth meets his as he palms the backs of her smooth thighs, his rough hands plucking her stockings. "Oh, ohh, my nylons."  
That Sears and Roebuck number slides with his hands until his Fruit of the Loom meet her sweet spot.

"I don't care 'bout them nylons," he says, licking. His hips grind against her. "D'ya?"

She really doesn't. Not at all.


	4. Flash Fic, week 6, on Madi Merek's blog

**I didn't go with the Twilight characters for this flash but original ones. I decided to include it anyway. **

**I got the idea for putting all these in one place, by the way, from sparklymeg, who regularly posts her flashfics and drabbles to her account. She's awesome.**

Mavis Johnson started the evening on her knees and ended it by bringing a man to his.

Senator Lucas Brandt saw her in a crowd at a party rally in Denver. She was walking by in a hurry, blonde hair down against the wind, blowing like spools of spun gold into his frame of vision. For a man with a photographic memory, it was a picture worth remembering.

Seeing her that evening, the white blonde hair pinned neatly, with her Bette Davis eyes turned up as her swollen lips slid over his cock, well, it was a sight he also planned not to forget. When he came, she took it, relished it, swallowing like a hungry little bird looking for more.

They danced in a lurid flush of expensive drugs and cheap liquor, the highest ranking member of the Committee on Appropriations and a waitress from Compton, California. They chased bitter dreams across slick skin and silk ties, screaming their bliss in a world where money could almost buy a soul.

In the gray light of dawn, she was dead and he was gone.


	5. Flash fic, week9, on Madi Merek's blog

**I wrote this drabble in response to Madi Merek's flash fic post, week 9. The prompt was a woman on a bed, holding a gun and letters with a kiss print on them in lipstick. The word prompt that accompanied it was the word "malice."**

**I won! Thanks to the guest judge who picked my words, Packy Pie 2.0, and to Madi, for hosting these fun contests weekly. Check our her blog, or her upcoming book. She's a google search away!**

**Here's what Packy (Little Lovely) had to say about my mini story: **

_**tgbmccray**__\- Wow, just wow! I am screaming internally and maybe externally too because this was so good. I need to know more because really, WHERE THE HELL IS LESLIE? Oh Maggie has been a really bad girl and Edward? Well, he's shit outta luck here. Excellent use of both prompts. I was very, very intrigued._

_Thanking everyone yet again for submitting. Every entry is a winner in their own rite, but my personal fave was this: "She starts to laugh, crazily, and her eyes aren't cold. They burn with malice."_

_Congratulations, TGBMcCray!_

**Next week, I'm hosting the ff contest, so come find me on Madi's blog and give me your words! Here's my winning drabble:**

* * *

Show me the most beautiful woman in the world and I will show you a man who will fuck around on her. I'm probably that man.

My wife, with her shapely legs that lead to heaven and her black lion's mane – well, she's certainly that woman. Her beauty masks the disturbing cold inside. I find the ones who warm me with luscious lips and heated fingers.

All I have to promise are lies.

Leslie is waiting. Tonight's our first time, and any man will tell you there is no time like the first. I met her in a bakery and gave her my card. The words I find in the P.O. box are naughty and sweet, sealed with perfume and a kiss. I'm going to slip in to her skin and turn her dirty, fuck her until she's mad, until she needs me the way Maggie never will.

I get the key in the door and rush in, making sure it's locked.

"Hello, darling."

Heaven help me.

She gestures with the silvery barrel in her hand. "You were expecting someone else?"

"Where's Leslie?"

She starts to laugh, crazily, and her eyes aren't cold. They burn with malice.


	6. Make believe

**I blame this one completely on Jada. She tweeted me the official video for Waiting Game by Banks yesterday and BOOM. All the IDEAS, y'all. **

**Here's the link, but if ff eats it, just google Banks and Waiting Game. Oh, and prepare yourself first, because that shiz is hawt, hawt, hawt. **

** watch?v=IaI5JCxOCdw **

**Pst. Jada. I added to it a bit!**

Acting, dancing, and singing create liars and thieves you can't help but love. We slip into our untruths and wear them like coats of finest mink, warm against the madnesses and realities of mere mortals.

Give me your emotions and I will dance them. Give me your words to sing and your dreams to make believe. I am what you want to be, and what he wants to see.

Just don't give me love. I cannot feel it. It's a lie.

* * *

His kiss intoxicates. I feel it in the curl of my toes and the heat that blocks out the bluish evening lights around us. I want more, need him so desperately that it feels like oblivion when he steps away. I'm a goner.

There is nothing else but this.

The curtain falls and Rosalie is calling, "Change!" with a blue dress in her hand, and he's slipping free, already off, stage left. He's walking away. "C'mon!" She is whisper yelling. I reach up, my eyes on the iron steps he disappeared down.

My lips are still warm.


	7. Flash fic, week 11, on Madi Merek's blog

**The prompt for this flash over on Madi Merek's blog was the word "bond" and a photo of a boy and girl sitting on a dock, their feet in the water. They were only visible from the shoulders down.**

Grinlen "Grins" McCale took his last shallow breath of warm air in a folding bed in his living room as the temperature outside his home hit ninety for the first time that summer.

Ace McCale, my best friend and first kiss, stood there at the end of his granddad's bed in silence while his gramma sobbed and his daddy went for the phone and the list of people waiting in a Mead college-ruled notebook for the call they knew was coming. I took Ace's hand in mine, and we slipped away, softly and quietly, into the warm sunshine of life. I hoped Grins had done the same, only higher up where he didn't hurt no more.

We sat on the dock looking at Grins' boat, not speaking but kicking our bare feet and watching the ripples reach to forever.

"I loved him so much," Ace said, and his voice was melting ice cream, running away from him.

"I know," I said.

"I love you, too," said Ace.

"I know." I touched his wet cheek and then my swollen stomach. "We're all gonna be okay, Ace. I promise. He'd want us to be bonded."


	8. In the Paint

**So anybody who knows me knows I'm a big UK basketball fan. While watching yet another amazingly close game Saturday night, I got inspired and started writing dirty Basketballward on FB. I cleaned it up a little but not much. This is just for fun. **

**P.S. The Harrison twins ROCK.**

When it's a W, I can't get back there fast enough.

There's a reporter waiting and I'm already half out of my bra. I shove it down into my bag and slam his locker door on the whole mess. Barkley's running his mouth at him. I can see him on the big screen, asking about strategy, and my baby is up there just twitching with the rush of this moment. When he's off, I rush out in to the tunnel and wait, wait...

I hear them coming and step up, and he's not surprised because this is us, what we do, what we both need. Coach keeps walking but my baby's massive hand is on my shoulder, guiding me, and there's a door close by and we duck through it. I've got his shorts down before it closes and he's palming my ass like the ball, one hand all over me. "You did it, baby," I say. He's beyond words, guttural, and he's against me, cooling sweat and hard need.

"You won," I say, and he swallows the rest of my thoughts and I feel his smile against my mouth. "Imma bout to win again. You best prepare yourself."

He says prepare but there's no time. He's hitched up my skirt and he's in me. He's in me deep.

I fucking love basketball. And I fucking love him.


	9. Burn

When you rage, the world draws around me in a tightness of breath and bitter words until I begin to strangle in my own misery. Your anger leaves no room for reason. I am wrong, wrong, wrong. You are wronged, and I must learn to listen. I must see, must acquiesces right away. I shouldn't have brought it up. I shouldn't have thought it or worst of all, given speech to my frustrations.

I am wrong and you are righteous. How the mighty roar, and how quickly I do what I swore never to do again.

I pull it all inside, ball it up, and swallow it down. I close my eyes and my heart and let it ride. It's what I know. It's how I live.

When I was a kid, Charlie partied. We were picked up late on Fridays and rode along for the beer runs to stock that weekend's parties. His girlfriends changed nearly as often as we visited, which was every other weekend if he was sober enough to remember to collect us. Leah Clearwater smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes and tried her best to pretend Charlie was a bachelor. One evening when I was around six, hunger drove me to tug at her too many times when he had already passed out on his plaid couch. I was crying, and being in a giving mood, she gave me something to cry about. I returned home sporting ten or twelve round little reminders on my forearm of why keeping my mouth shut will always be the safest option.

I feel six again when we fight. The more I cry, the more it burns.


	10. Schizo

**This was inspired by Eminem and Rihanna's "The Monster." I cleaned it up to post as I wrote it on FB a while back. It may well be one of my next chapter-length fics. We'll see. I'm still here. A lot going on right now. I will be back to CR soon. xo**

The devil takes many forms. Sometimes she's a tall, smooth blonde, strapping me down in a cold white room and asking me softly, "Wouldn't you like to get up and play?"

Sometimes she's a delicious African queen, bringing me to heel with nothing more than the razor touch of her talon-like nails. I try to catch her when she moves away, but she sets loose with a thrumming of the great black wings I didn't know she had, and seconds later, she dips and is gone.

Gone.

Most often she is a petite brunette, disturbing in her stature because her slightness disguises the anger and darkness that well up from her glowing coal eyes. No matter her form, each time she speaks her voice is the same, and the sound of it awakens something in me – something between fear and worship – at the tip of madness.

Madness and death and lust. My roommate, Emmett, says she is only a madness, a product of too much Klonopin and too many resistors in my brain. These are the times when even a crazy person knows that schizophrenia sucks. I want her to be real. It would make it all a little bit more bearable.

"Edward," she says, her hands running over my prone and naked body. "One day I will take you with me." Her long fingers cup my scrotum when my eyes begin to flutter in sensation and pleasure. I must not let my attention wander. She wants me to listen.

"Yes, miss?"

She palms me. Her grip is firm, as strong as what I imagine a man's might be. I can't reconcile her strength to her luscious little body, but her hands are telling me I shouldn't try. She licks my throat and her glowing black eyes are very near in the darkness. "Some night, my darling, I will make you mine."

I don't answer because she is stroking me. It's so hard to be quiet, because I am growing, weeping, seeping, yes, yes, yes, nearly exploding in her expert hands. I don't want to come, don't want to come…

I don't want her to go. Not yet not yet not yet not yettttt…


	11. The Prince

Sex felt like breathing. In and out, deep or shallow, fast and slowly building. It rose up from him to leave me cherished or ravished in equal intensity.

He prayed the way a friar might, in contemplative moments of deep intensity, lips moving quietly in prayers that could be poems, so beautiful were the words and so deep in their devoted belief.

His music came from both mothers, birthing his faith and his raw needs with a mind tingling genius that no one could touch. We were all just orbiting around him, watching his flames, unable to look away even when it made us blind. Someone once said he didn't play a guitar. He masturbated it to completion. The truth of this could be found in the little death playing over his face whenever a song ended and the clenching of our hearts and lady parts whenever he picked up a mic or touched a key or when his fingers licked across one of his many guitars.

His movements on stage and those high falsetto screams didn't just whip his fans into frenzy, they pulled us inside him where he could feast on our energy and we could gorge on his talent. None of it was ever enough.

He would play and he would pray and after he came from the first, someone would be chosen for the last, for the sex. I never expected it to be me. He pulled me up to dance that night and when the song ended, there was that sexy grin, that playful twinkle in his eye, and I was whisked away to wait for him. I would've followed him to the ends of the Earth.

But the Earth was never made to hold him after all.

When he came to me that first night back stage, I couldn't stand in front of him. My knees would not hold me, and with all his swagger, he knew. And so for the first time I saw the quiet intensity, the careful protection he offered those in his circle.

He stood in front of me and took my hand, kissing it. The low lights in the dressing room hit the sweat in the curls of his chest hair and I could smell him now, in this close room.

"It's so nice to meet you, dear," he said, a lion stalking on stacked heels. "I do hope you'll stay with me?"

My tongue involuntarily curled against my lower lip. I couldn't speak. I was shaking and so dry and wet and lost and coming home. At any moment, he would order me away and it would be my fault, for freezing like that.

His eyebrows were up and he was shaking his head just slightly, still holding my quivering fingers in his steady ones. "Blink once for yes and twice for no?" That humor. I thought he'd be serious but every illusion I had of him was only that. Smoke.

I blinked, hard, and he clapped his hands. "Well," he purred. "I can't wait to get a sound out of you. I bet I can. A good one."

He had me calling for His God with very little movement. That frenetic energy distilled into the kind of concentration with which he played and I spilled for him, undulating in waves of song no one ever released from me but him.


End file.
